Wounded Knee
by BandGeek99
Summary: AU, historical fiction. Edwin. The Elric brothers are volunteers at the Pine Ridge reservation in 1889. Nothing could have prepared them for the horrors to unfold there. Rated for language/death. Try reading, you might learn something new. Critique plz?
1. Part I

WOUNDED KNEE – by BandGeek99

_This was fun. Hard, but fun. Especially since it had to be done in one night… O_o I'm sooo not used to writing like that. But it was fun._

_This is a sort of snapshot-style story, which is why it's so weird in time changing and stuff. If it weren't so short, I would be able to get into more character POVs on different issues and stuff, but this was all I had energy for… Sorry… And there's death, too. Just figured I'd warn you, so you weren't surprised (you probably wouldn't be, anyhow. It's so poorly written...!!)_

_This was written for school, my American History course to be exact, that had to depict something from the era of Expansion, be it reservation life, the Spanish-American war, Panama canal, mining life, etc. So I chose reservation life for the Sioux. Sorry if it sucks, some constructive criticism is appreciated._

_Alternate universe for obvious reasons, written to take place in the late 1880's in the United States of America, the Dakota Territory. Sorry if it offends or anything, hope it doesn't._

**Part I**

The sounds and smells of people filled the town center where the agency was located. Children screamed and played, women gossiped, men stood around and talked of days gone by. Horses slowly hauled wagons full of goods from one place to another and people traded, laughed, sang, and generally mingled about in the blazing summer heat of the Dakota Territory.

This was the sight that greeted a group of volunteers, fresh from Boston, who rode up in a long covered wagon.

The vehicle was driven by a tall, lithe-looking blond with sleepy blue eyes and boyish good looks. He yawned, taking the reins in one hand as he pushed long wisps of hair from his face. "Fletcher," he called loudly as he halted the oxen. "Get our stuff together and wake everyone. We made it."

There was an affirmative response from within the wagon as the young man stood to a full height of six feet and two inches. He lifted his arms and yawned, silently thinking, _It's good to be here. Finally._

"Russell, I've woken everyone. They'll all be out in a few minutes," a young boy said, climbing out of the wagon and running around to where the driver stood. He seemed to be a miniature of the blond, with a softer and more innocent look to him. He was only ten or eleven years old.

The taller blond, Russell, grinned. "Excellent, little brother."

"Mr. Tringham, we've arrived, have we?" a tiny old lady asked, peeking around the back of the wagon.

"Yes, Mrs. Rockbell. Welcome to the Sioux reservation, Pine Ridge." Russell grinned and jumped down from the wagon's front. He ruffled his younger brother's hair and waltzed towards the back of the vehicle. "I'm sorry we ended up taking longer that we anticipated."

She waved a hand and scoffed. "Think nothing of it, Russell."

He nodded. "Right, ma'am." He passed her and opened the flap at the rear of the wagon. "Are you all coming?"

"Yeah, yeah," came the reply.

"Edward, manners!" a woman hissed and there was a dull "thwack".

"Jesus Christ, Winry!" the same person yelped. "What was that for?!"

There was another thwack and some cursing followed before the woman yelled "Edward! Shut your trap, you understand?! I hit you because you were being rude!"

"You hit me with Al's medical dictionary! Do you have any clue how heavy that is?!"

"Heavier than a wrench, I'll guess," she responded and Russell heard a third party sigh.

A thin young man with shaggy sandy brown hair jumped from the back of the wagon, narrowly missing Russell. He didn't seem too much older than Russell, and he was very nearly as tall. "How I put up with the two of them I'll never know," he sighed as the bickering continued. It was only then he seemed to register that he had almost landed on the blond. "Ah, sorry, Russell," he said, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment.

"Don't worry about it, Alphonse," Russell replied. "Would you mind helping Fletcher tie up the oxen while I get the lovebirds?"

"Sure," Alphonse said happily. "Not a problem."

"Excellent. Thanks," Russell said, watching the other retreat.

"Yep," Alphonse said, disappearing beyond the wagon.

Mrs. Rockbell, a tiny woman with a large, beak-like nose, spectacles, and graying brown hair pulled back into a tight bun, stepped beside the elder Tringham. She raised a solitary eyebrow as she listened to the bickering still happening inside the wagon. "That poor man is going to have dents in his head if she keeps throwing books at him."

Russell chortled uneasily, knowing that the woman chucking books inside the vehicle was scarily similar to Mrs. Rockbell. "I think he might already have one."

She laughed. "You're probably right, Mr. Tringham! Now what do you say we get them out of there so I can go sit down? I'm getting old, son, and my knees aren't what they used to be."

Russell nodded. "Of course, ma'am." With that, he climbed up and into the wagon.

It was cramped and dimly lit, barely high enough for Russell to stand in, but the two "lovebirds" had no problem standing, both seemingly at each other's throat.

The first of the two was a young man, slightly older than Russell but of a shorter, more muscular physique, with long, unruly golden hair pulled into a high ponytail. He had brown-gold eyes that glared daggers at the woman in front of him, his handsome face scowling severely.

The woman in question was willowy with long arms, long blonde hair, and blue eyes that, were it possible, would have killed the slightly taller man she was fighting with. A trunk was open at her feet, filled with books, some of which Russell noticed had already been hurled at her companion. She grasped a hardcover edition of Victor Hugo's "Les Miserables" in her right hand, poised to throw it.

Russell had to bite back his laughter. Seeing the young lady so upset, throwing _books_ even, was unheard of, and yet, this was a common occurrence. Stranger still was the fact that the shorter blond man was actually putting up with it.

"Edward, Miss Rockbell," he said, trying hard not to laugh. "It's time for us to head out. Your grandmother is getting tired, and besides, we need to get settled sometime soon."

Miss Rockbell smiled innocently over to Russell. "Oh, of course. Please, excuse us." With that, she took two steps forward, whacked Edward across the head with the novel, then promptly flounced past the two young men and out of the wagon.

"She's got good aim, hm?" Russell asked as Edward muttered obscenities under his breath while he righted himself.

"She's the devil's spawn, I'm sure of it," he muttered, stomping past the taller one of the two and jumping out of the wagon. "Damn Winry! Can't _stand_ the woman!"

"If you can't stand her then how can you be in love with her?" Russell asked.

Edward turned and his demeanor changed. "I ask myself that all the time. I guess I'll never know," he said with a laugh and a sheepish shrug. With that, he turned to the street filled with Sioux and called, "Hey, Al! Alphonse! Where did you get off to?"

"Don't worry about your brother, he's with Fletcher," Russell said, shoving his hands into his pockets and taking a deep breath of the summer air. "Finally, I get to stretch my legs."

Edward stretched his arms high above his head, yawning loudly. "Feels good to be out of that wagon." He meandered across the street to the agency building where the two Rockbell women were waiting on the porch.

The younger of the two smiled innocently at him, still holding the thick novel in her hands while the elderly woman gave him a smirk.

Edward gulped. "These women will be the death of me," he mumbled.

Russell laughed and stepped past the two ladies, opening and holding the door for them.

The four entered, unsure of what awaited them at the Pine Ridge reservation.

What they found was a man in his late twenties or early thirties sitting behind a large mahogany desk, looking over papers. He was sharp featured with short black hair that hung ever so slightly in front of his eyes. Coal colored eyes took in the newcomers with a long, calculating look and his pale face was placid and unreadable. The plaque on the front of his desk read "Roy Mustang".

"Mr. Mustang," Edward said in an authoritative tone. "It is a pleasure to meet you. I'm Edward Elric, this is Russell Tringham, my fiancé Winry Rockbell, and her grandmother Pinako Rockbell." The two women nodded in acknowledgement and Russell stepped forward as his name was called.

"Ah, so you're the doctor's entourage?" Mustang asked, rising from his seat. His voice was deep and commanding, and from the smirk on his face, Edward could tell that he would have to work hard not to beat his pompous mug into the dirt.

"Yes, sir," Edward said, biting back his urge to spit at the dark-haired man.

"Excellent. I'm Roy Mustang; it's a pleasure to meet you all. I'm the agent in charge here at Pine Ridge." He shook Russell and Edward's hands. "How was the journey in?"

"Long," Russell answered honestly.

Mustang barked with laughter, reminding Edward very much of a great, shaggy mutt of some kind. "I'm sure! You're all from Boston, am I right?"

"Yes, sir, that's it," Edward said stiffly, hastily folding his hands behind his back.

"Excellent, excellent. You should fit in with Benjamin Barker, he's the barber here. Hails from Malden, round the same area, hm?"

"Yes, sir," Russell said, following Edward's example.

"Good, good. Now, I suppose you'd like to see where you'll be staying?" Mustang said, emerging from behind the desk. He was taller than Edward by a good four inches, reaching the same height of Russell.

"If it's not too much trouble," Mrs. Rockbell said, finally making herself known. "I'd rather like to give my old bones a rest."

Mustang gave her the fakest smile any of the newcomers had ever seen. "Of course, madam. Right this way."

He left the agency building and led the four down the crowded main street.

The Native Americans parted as thought they had the plague, watching the newcomers with expressions that varied from curiosity to mild resentment to full out rage. Winry crept closer to Edward, grabbing his fingers with a free hand and holding on tightly.

Alphonse and Fletcher had found them by the time they'd reached a small, run-down shack on the outskirts of the settlement's center. The door hinge squeaked loudly as it opened and shut and Edward feared that the sagging wooden floors would fall in under the weight of seven people, four of them strapping men.

"This is it," Roy Mustang said, leading the group through the small house and into a room lined with shelves and dusty bottles. Abandoned and outdated medical books lay haphazardly around the room and the windows were filthy, cooked, or broken.

Alphonse was aghast. "There's no examination table?" he asked with a slight stutter.

"We manage without around here," Mustang said, his fake smile once again plastered on his face.

"Indeed," Edward said darkly, folding his arms across his face and furrowing his brow.

"We've this cod liver oil left from the last man," Mustang said, striding over to a small collection of crates in the corner. "And we've some alcohol to clean with, as well as some old apothecary equipment."

"I see," Edward said, breaking free of the group and slowly making his way around the room, taking in the sub-par conditions the makeshift doctor's office held. "Very well. Thank you, Mr. Mustang. Even this is much appreciated."

Mustang nodded. "If you don't mind, you'll have to excuse me. I have paperwork to fill out."

"Of course."

"If you find yourself in need of anything, please, feel free to head down to the rations office. Just ask for a Vato Falman or a Jean Havoc. They're in charge there, I'm sure they'll only be too happy to help." With that, Mustang left, giving the ladies a curt nod and a silent wave as he did so.

As soon as the front door shut behind him, Edward said, "That's one pompous ass if ever I saw one. Reminds me of Dad."

"Edward!" both Winry and Alphonse scolded, leaving Fletcher lost and confused while Mrs. Rockbell and Russell laughed.

"You looked just like your father for a second," the old woman said with a chuckle.

"What?! Like him?! No!" Edward protested.

Alphonse groaned, slapping his forehead with his palm. His older brother always got this way when their father was mentioned. "Brother, let's just get to work on cleaning this place up, alright?"

"Fine, Al," Edward said grumpily, making his way towards the exit.

* * *

It took almost two days, but after much work on the part of everyone in the small house, the Pine Ridge Agency Doctor's Office was finally fit to live in.

That same day, Edward and Winry left the house to pick up some rations which they had unintentionally overlooked, such as thicker blankets, food, and a few new pairs of clothes, especially for Fletcher who seemed to tear and ruin his trousers every other day.

As they walked through the town, sticking out like a pair of sore thumbs, Edward had wrapped his right arm firmly around his fiancé's waist. The two talked of political affairs in Washington, debating the growing tensions with foreign nations over the protection of South America and with Spain over the small country of Cuba.

"Are you sure you're alright with coming out here?" Edward asked, drastically changing the subject from the topic of politics. His brown-gold eyes bore deeply and concernedly into Winry's. "I know it's not ideal. I know you wanted to go back to Vermont, raise a family out in Resembool. We could go back home, you know. I'm just here to help out where I can at the agency, I'm not tied down, Win."

She laughed at him. "Don't be silly, Edward."

"Huh?"

"I've decided to apply for a job as a teacher at one of the schools here," she said brightly, grinning. "These children need a teacher, and I'm happy to help out."

Edward was slightly surprised, expecting her to ask him to go home. "You sure?"

"Of course. Now, let's not worry about that. You remember what we need?" Winry asked as the two of them neared the rations office.

"Yeah, course I do," he replied, holding the door open for her.

The two of them entered and looked around the dimly-lit room. Edward spotted a tall man with grey hair behind the counter, shuffling through papers.

"Excuse me," Winry said, approaching the counter. "We're here to see Mr. Vato Falman or Mr. Jean Havoc."

"I'm Falman," the grey-haired man said, looking up from his papers. "May I help you?"

"I'm Winry Rockbell, this is Edward Elric. We were told to come down here to pick up some flour, sugar, beef, and some clothing," the young woman said, leaning on the counter heavily.

"Yes, of course," the man said, turning to the stocks behind him. "How much food and what size clothes?"

"Five pounds sugar, eight pounds flour, five pounds of beef, and some clothes that would fit a growing eleven-year-old," Edward said, placing his hand over Winry's. "And a pair of boots, please."

The man nodded stiffly and placed the food on the counter. "The clothes will be a moment." With that, he turned and left for one of the back rooms.

Edward lifted the meat and unwrapped it, examining it. The beef seemed… off to him. Gross, even. He showed it to the woman beside him. "Does this seem strange to you?" he asked.

Winry, who was known for her cooking skills back in New England, frowned. "Somehow… yes."

He frowned and wrapped it back up again, mentally noting not to trust it.

Falman reentered the room and dropped a small bundle of clothing atop the counter. "Ration tickets?"

"Here," Edward said, fishing into his pocket and pulling out tickets that Mustang had given him.

"Thank you. You're all set, sir," Falman said boredly, turning back to his papers.

"The boots?" Edward prompted.

The man gave him a blank look before it dawned on him. "Ah, yes, of course. What size?"

"Twelve men's, please."

Falman crouched and rummaged around under the counter before dropping a thick pair of leather boots on the countertop. "My mistake."

Edward shoved a few dollars across the countertop and, after briefly thanking the grey-haired man, left with Winry.

---

PART 2 will be up soon.


	2. Part II

**Part II  
**The trousers that the two of them had just gotten for Fletcher had rips and tears in various places, and Winry mended them with the kit she had brought from the east coast. The shirt that had been picked up shared a similar fate and Russell frowned at the thought of his brother running around like a Paris street gamin in tattered clothes and with tattered shoes on his feet.

The materials that the rations office handed out seemed exceptionally sub-par to the two Elrics, who had both scraped a living off the streets since their father abandoned them and their mother passed away when they were children. Usually, clothing with a rip and a tear would signify frequent usage. Supposedly, though, these clothes from the office were new, which made the brothers suspect something was up.

Alphonse, who was the only "official" doctor in the Elric family, began to treat patients the second he had his materials unpacked. He found a number of men showed up claiming to be ill and in need of "the brown bottle", which he soon realized was the (rather disgusting) cod liver oil. The twenty-two-year-old doctor sighed, making the connection. Cod liver oil, in order to keep while it was shipped to the reservations, was mixed with alcohol. There was about one tablespoon per bottle—it was this that the Sioux men desired.

Alphonse tried to keep the Native Americans from taking the oil unless it was vital. He failed at it. The indigenous people were well on their way to becoming alcoholics.

Children were common patients. Alphonse ended up making up a separate bedroom, where he would have slept, for the young people inflicted with diseases that ran rampant throughout the reservation. Smallpox and typhoid were common, and Fletcher, per order of his elder brother, was usually kept away from the house as much as possible to keep him from catching it, too.

Winry and her grandmother had found jobs at a local school. Winry worked with the younger children, usually six to eight years old, while her grandmother worked with unruly older children, teenagers most often. Winry, being a motherly sort, and Pinako, being a dictator-esque disciplinarian, were both very well suited to their jobs.

Edward and Russell helped out whenever they could with whatever they could, and after a while, they found themselves on the local police force. Though neither man was a Sioux, like most of the officers were, he found he was welcomed into their ranks.

The winter of 1889 soon came upon the reservation. The weather reminded the newcomers of New England, freezing and harsh. It was something familiar in an entirely foreign land.

Diseases struck harder and faster than they had before. Alphonse required frequent assistance from anyone who could help, usually Fletcher and the two Rockbell women, but it was to no avail. The rations were too poor; the blankets kept away almost no cold and held zero warmth. Close living quarters amongst many Sioux led to quick and far spreading of the diseases. Measles, influenza, and whooping cough claimed the lives of children left and right, shaking the Bostonians to the bone each time.

Mrs. Rockbell soon caught a sudden bout of influenza. Being nearly seventy, her body simply couldn't hold off the disease. The old lady fought hard, but eventually succumbed.

Her last moments were spent with the Tringhams, the Elrics, and her granddaughter beside her.

"You can't die, you old bat," Edward said thickly, clenching Winry's hand. "You just can't."

"Don't you tell me what to do, short stuff," the woman responded sharply. Even on her deathbed, she was snarky and quick-witted. "I've had a long, happy life. I'm alright with this."

"Gran?" Winry whimpered, holding her grandmother's hand tightly.

Pinako turned her head to face her and smiled kindly. "Winry, you be sure to look after these boys, hm? Make sure they don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone, now."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"I'm proud of you, Winry. I'm proud of all of you. I love you all so much."

"Granny?" Fletcher whimpered, standing close to his older brother.

"Edward… If you so much as hurt a single hair on my granddaughter's head, I'll swoop down from heaven and beat you myself with a wrench, do you hear me?"

"Yeah."

"Good, good." She closed her eyes and gave one small weak laugh. "Just let me sleep now. I'll see you all when I wake, hm?"

"G'night, Auntie," Alphonse said quietly.

The only comfort the Christian church of the town could provide was a proper funeral. The old lady, while rather well-liked, didn't have a huge crowd of mourners, but, Edward supposed, she would have preferred it that way.

The usual songs were sung. Winry began to cry during "Amazing Grace" and simply hung onto Edward as he stared blankly at the hymnal, his singing automatic. His mind tried to process it all. The old lady simply couldn't be gone. _She was far too stubborn to go so soon,_ Edward thought sadly. _That's what she always said to us._ The young man was able to keep his composure almost until the end of the service. When the final song, "How Great Thou Art" was being sung, though, he felt himself begin to break down and he let one solitary tear slide down his cheek. _Pull yourself together! You're Edward Elric! You're the goddamn rock in your family! You can't cry. There's no reason to. She's happier. She's in heaven. Jesus, Ed, pull it together!_

In the end, though, he wasn't entirely able to. He pulled Winry close to him and let the young woman sob into his chest. Their lives wouldn't be the same without Pinako Rockbell.


	3. Parts III and IV

**Part III**

When spring finally showed its face, Winry was tired. She was exhausted from all of the sleepless nights tending to patients and she was still somewhat shaken from the loss of her grandmother, who had been the only blood family she had.

However, she found that as the months wore on, as the weather became warmer and number of ill patients decreased, she found herself becoming happier. She and Edward had planned their wedding for that very summer—June 14th, 1890.

She went to work each day to help the young Sioux children adjust to a "proper" way of life. She taught them songs about loving the Lord God, she taught them nursery rhymes, she taught them how to do basic arithmetic, and she helped them all choose good, Christian names.

Every other weekend she visited the rations office to pick up food and supplies, and every other weekend she was met with the same sub-par materials. The meat was poor, the clothes tattered, and the blankets holey and moth-eaten. She suspected some small form of corruption, that officials were taking all quality rations for themselves. After all, they all seemed to live quite well. The young woman had half a mind to march in and tell the officers exactly what she thought of their methods, but decided against it. After all, it would be "unladylike" of her to do such a thing.

Winry, in general, felt her life was going rather well. The same could not be said for the Native Americans on the reservation.

The Dawes Act, passed merely thirteen years ago, had seemingly doomed them all. When Senator Dawes had suggested the idea of self-sufficiency, in theory, it seemed like a terrific method. In practice, however it was impractical. The land was arid and hard to raise crops from. Many Plains Indians, so used to following buffalo wherever they roamed, knew no other way of life and weren't able to adjust.

Faith and morale was running in short supply. The Sioux couldn't believe in a "white" God, couldn't believe that he was so loving if his people were suffering so much under the strict rule of the American government.

But by the time June hit, a revered Paiute prophet had come to the reservation. Wavoka, his name was. Winry had no idea what he preached, but whatever it was seemed to work to keep hope alive.

The fourteenth rolled around quickly, almost in a blur, and soon Edward and Winry were married. They held a small ceremony and returned to Boston for a short visit to celebrate with friends before returning to the Dakota Territory in mid-July.

As the newlyweds made their way from the center of town to the small house and doctor's office, Edward noticed the loud clicking and bright flashes of a camera. He paused his wife and pointed to where it had come from.

The two were shocked. The revered leader of the Sioux, the infamous hero of the people, the symbol of all Native American resistance to the US government, Sitting Bull, was the one posing for the camera.

"Is that really him?" Winry whispered to Edward, slightly confused. She had only ever seen Sitting Bull a few times, not often venturing into town unless she absolutely needed to.

"Yeah," Edward replied in a hushed tone. "That's him, alright."

A small, wiry man with thick glasses and a nervous air about him thanked the Indian chief fervently, shaking his hand over and over again. "…can't tell you how much of an honor it would be to get your autograph, too!"

"I can't tell you how much of an honor it would be if you paid me for it, too," the old man replied with a small smirk.

While the wiry foreigner dug around in his rucksack for money, Edward turned away, disgusted. There was a time when he had great respect for Sitting Bull; after all, it took a lot of faith to stand up for what you believed. But this… this was it for him. _Selling his image? Has he really stooped so low?_

Apparently, he had. And things only got worse for the Sioux from there.

**Part IV**

"Elric, Watson, Tringham! I want you to shut down these so called 'Ghost Dances', do you understand me?"

Edward stood at attention in a line of his fellow officers, staring straight ahead at Agent Mustang.

The enraged government official suddenly seemed ten times more threatening in his anger, his eyes filled with flame.

"Yes, sir," he chanted, saluting.

"Those beasts, preaching death to the white man! How dare they, after all we've done for them! They're going to rebel, the devils," Mustang roared. "I want them stopped, am I clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then get going, damn it!"

The three aforementioned men silently made their way outside of the agency building, in which Mustang was still screaming and ranting at the top of his lungs.

Edward climbed up onto his horse and made his way out of town, silently contemplating. Mustang had recently been more and more annoyed about these "Ghost Dances". Apparently, Wavoka the prophet had told the Sioux that if they performed this ritual, it would get rid of the white man from the world and restore it to the way it had been before. _How stupid. Those poor people, believing it all, too,_ he mused.

His November afternoon was spent attempting to shut down the rituals, but it proved to be futile. They scorned him as a white and as an officer. He wouldn't be able to do anything to stop the Sioux from their faith.

* * *

"Edward?"

The eldest of the group of New Englanders sat on the edge of his bed, deep in thought. He looked up as he saw his wife in the doorway with a cup of coffee in her hands and worry on her face. "Hey, Win," he said with a half-hearted smile.

"Here," she said, sitting next to him and offering him the coffee. "I put some brandy in it. Thought it might help."

The twenty-four-year-old murmured a quick "thanks" and took a long sip.

"What's wrong?" the blonde woman asked, cocking her head in confusion.

"I'm getting a feeling that something's going to go wrong," he said simply. "I don't know what yet, but I know its going to happen, and soon."

"Why do you say that?" she asked, her brow furrowing. Edward's gut instinct was usually right. Hearing him say something like this made her nervous.

"I don't know. But the whole Ghost Dance fiasco isn't getting any better. The government is still positive it's a rebellion and the natives won't stop. It's a paradox and at this rate it's not going to end well."

Winry silently put her head on his shoulder, wrapping his arm in hers. She hoped he would make it through unscathed.


	4. Part V

**Part V**

Christmas had come and Christmas had passed in a matter of days. Russell had noticed definite unrest within the Sioux and only later discovered that it was caused by 40 Native American police officers.

They had been ordered to arrest Sitting Bull. An officer had been shot by the chief's bodyguard, Catch-the-Bear and all Hell broke loose as police attacked and killed Sitting Bull. Apparently, in the aftermath, Chief Big Food led the remaining Sioux away from the scene.

The government had stepped in by the time the twenty ninth of December arrived. Orders had been given by the 7th Cavalry, who had marched into the reservation, to round up all of the Sioux they could and lead them to a camp at Wounded Knee Creek. Edward and Russell had been recruited to help out with the mission.

On the 30th of December, before riding out, Russell gave twelve-year-old Fletcher a hug and told him to be good.

Edward, meanwhile, said farewell to his brother and kissed his wife goodbye.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked worriedly.

"Yeah, course I am," was his reply and he kissed her again. He put his lips to her ear and whispered, "Remember Winry. No matter how far, I'll always love you. Alright?"

"I love you too," she replied, hugging him tightly around the middle. "Promise you'll come back safely."

"I promise."

That day the two young men rode out with the Cavalry to do their deed. They herded the Sioux down a trail to the camp at the creek, pretending not to notice the whimpering children or the shivering men and women.

The night spent at the camp was quiet, almost too quiet. It should have been a sign of what was yet to come, but of course, no one would suspect.

* * *

"Drop your weapons here, please," Russell called again, gesturing to a small and growing pile of guns and firearms. "Just put them into the pile now."

He received several glowers from older men and shouts from young children, but he ignored them. "Into the pile, please," he repeated.

Most people had done so, except for one man who either didn't hear him or didn't care.

A private had taken it upon himself to confiscate the weapon. There was a short struggle between him and the Native American and before anyone registered what was happening, a shot rang out in the winter air.

It was the beginning of a truly bloody battle.

"Fire!" a commanding officer shouted, and Russell did as he was ordered.

Men and women ran every which way, children screamed and cried for their mothers. Soldiers hopped off of their horses and ran into the fray, Native Americans picked up whatever they could use for weaponry and did what they could with it.

Russell opened fire on a small group of men running from the fray. He felt his stomach lurch as he saw he had hit one in the middle of the back. He almost puked as he hit another twice, once in the shoulder, once in the leg. The blond looked away; it was almost too much.

"What do you think you're doing, man? Fire!" his superior shouted and he bit his lip, raising the gun in his hands and shooting once more.

A sudden flash of gold caught his eye and he turned his head to see Edward in the middle of it all, on the frontlines with other infantrymen. He ran guerilla-style amongst the Sioux, shooting whenever he could, the disgust at his actions evident on his face. He never saw it coming.

"EDWARD, LOOK OUT!"

_

* * *

So, I guess this is what it feels like to be dying?_

He was sprawled out on the frozen ground, snow falling gently around him. The sound of gunfire and of death still occurred, though it was slowing. But it had only been minutes, hadn't it? Edward wasn't quite sure. The pain on his right kept him from concentrating too hard on much else.

"Edward! Oh, Christ, Edward, are you alright?!" He knew that voice. It was… Robert. Richard. Oh, what was the guy's name…? …Renaldo?

"Ed, it's me, it's Russell! Come on, don't die on me now."

"Hey, Russell," he managed, slitting his eyes open to see his worried comrade over him.

"We gotta get you back to town; you can make it, it's only your arm, right?"

"Russ… I'm not gonna make it back there in time."

"Yes, you will! I'll be damned if you don't, Edward!" By this time, Russell was in the process of slinging his friend over his shoulder and hauling him back to where the soldiers were. "Hey! One of you! Give me a hand!"

Two young soldiers, probably only eighteen years of age, looked up, alarmed.

"Come here, help me carry him! He needs a doctor, now!"


	5. Part VI

**Part VI**

Edward slipped in and out of consciousness for the next few hours. He remembered being in a lot of pain (he remembered that vividly), and he could vaguely recall his brother's voice and his wife's cries. When he fully awoke, he was lying in his own bed with his arm and shoulder tied up tightly and a killer headache.

Winry was asleep beside him, on his left, her cheeks stained with tears she had shed earlier in the day.

"Win," he murmured, looking down at his hands. "I'm… I'm alive." His mind flashed to the battle he'd just endured. _But they're not, are they._

"Winry, is Brother—" Alphonse tiredly shuffled into the room, wiping his hands on a ragged cloth. His doctor's apron was covered in sticky brown-red, a shade Edward recognized all too well. The young man's eyes were drooping and his entire self was disheveled; he looked like he'd seen Hell. Alphonse's grey eyes fell on his (awake) older brother and he gave a weak smile. "Hi, Ed. Good to see you've made it."

"You too."

"You gave us quite a scare," Alphonse said, dragging his feet to a chair near the bedside. "I thought we'd lost you."

"I thought I was a goner, too."

"Winry will be so glad to see you're alright."

Edward nodded, biting his lip. His left hand unconsciously began stroking her hair ever so gently and she moaned a little in her sleep, moving closer to him.

"Stupid Edward, making us worry again."

Edward gave his brother a tired smile. "Yeah, yeah. I know, I've heard it all before."

Alphonse studied him for a moment before he finally said, "Brother, I think you ought to go home, back to Boston. For a little while, anyway."

"Al…?"

"Just until this whole Indian war ordeal is cleared up, anyway. They say that there are 300 people dead already. They haven't been able to search for survivors yet because of the blizzard."

"Where are Russell and Fletcher?"

"Russell is asleep and Fletcher hasn't left his side since he got home. It's almost like he's afraid that if he leaves, his brother will vanish." Alphonse gave a weak, tired chuckle.

"Is Russ alright?"

"He was hit pretty bad, took a bullet straight to the stomach, while he was trying to get help for you," Al replied gravely, looking at his hands, which still held the ragged, filthy cloth. "It doesn't look good for him, Ed."

"Do they know who fired first?" Edward asked.

His brother hesitated, then sighed deeply. "They don't know for sure, but the police are sure it was the Sioux. I wouldn't doubt it, seeing as the man they tried to take that gun from was deaf. He didn't know what was happening."

"It would figure. How many dead from the Cavalry?"

"Only a few. They seemed much better off in terms of casualties."

"I'll say."

"Doctor Elric! Doctor Elric, we need you!" someone called from the clinic and Alphonse stood, sighing heavily again.

"Go ahead, Al. I'm not going anywhere."

Al nodded and gave a silent wave, too tired and solemn to respond any other way.

Edward kissed the top of Winry's head and tried to fall back asleep, which proved nigh impossible.

The screams and wails of the fallen still haunted him.

---

_Only the epilogue is left._


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The aftermath of the fight left the small band of "foreigners" distraught. The wounded and ill survivors had flooded the clinic, keeping Alphonse busy, and Winry took time off to stay at home and help him out. Edward pulled himself from the police force; his arm was badly injured, and he knew it would never heal quite right. Fletcher clung to Winry like a child clings to his mother; he no longer had anyone else.

Russell hadn't made it through the night. The damage to organs added to severe blood loss proved to be a fatal combination for the young man. Fletcher was not the only one torn up about it; the entire group was. Russell, though seemingly "not there" most of the time, was glue that held everyone together. He loosened Alphonse up, helped to keep Edward in line, acted as a sort of "big brother" figure for Winry, and protected his twelve-year-old brother as though he were the most precious thing on Earth.

His funeral was a solemn occasion and the four who had come to the reservation with him couldn't bear to speak. If they opened their mouths, they knew they'd just begin to cry and wail, missing him more.

Edward and Winry soon moved back to New England. Edward claimed that the job opportunities were better back home; Alphonse knew that he just didn't want to have to face the Sioux every morning, knowing that he had been responsible for so many of their deaths. Winry resigned from the school she was teaching at, dutifully following her husband wherever he went, as she had vowed to do they day they married. They brought Fletcher with them; the boy needed a family, and Edward and Winry were only too happy to bring him into their home.

Alphonse stayed behind, opting to work as hard as he could for the benefit of the Sioux. He knew that he would never be able to bring back the dead. The mere thought of that was morbid, taboo, even. Instead, he vowed to protect the lives of those still living, knowing they needed him to stay on their feet.

However, he soon fell ill with one of the many rampant diseases and returned back to his brother's home in coastal New Hampshire to recuperate. The young man never returned to Pine Ridge Reservation.

The Elrics did their best to put the past in the past. Edward, who had always been good with his hands, opened up a small mechanic's shop. He and Winry had three children in addition to Fletcher; Sarah, Nicholas, and Dameon. Alphonse had found and fallen in love with a freckled Irish girl upon moving back to Boston, and they soon married. Life went on for the two families.

But the Battle of Wounded Knee was one memory that was never to be forgotten.


End file.
